


When the Movie Ends

by cheshiredog



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, First Kiss, Fluff, Holding Hands, Holding Hands Under The Blanket, M/M, Movie Night, Pack Bonding, Scary Movies, Secret Hand Holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:09:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28663731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshiredog/pseuds/cheshiredog
Summary: Movie nights weren't supposed to be scary, and they certainly weren't supposed to end up with Stiles gripping Derek's hand for dear life.
Relationships: Derek Hale & Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 10
Kudos: 304





	When the Movie Ends

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't been super satisfied with any of the oneshots I've written over the past couple months so I didn't want to post them, but I finally feel comfortable with this one. Hope you enjoy!

Movie nights began as a pack bonding exercise. Scott’s idea. Everybody rolled their eyes, but come Saturday evening, the air electrified with a comfortable excitement; the pack eager to be together for a reason that, for once, wasn’t life-threatening. All except Derek. When he skulked in to post up in the darkest corner he could find, everybody shared furtive glances, surprise filtering through the house like a game of telephone.

Stiles helped Scott and Kira set up the snacks Ms. McCall had bought earlier. They ended up with a giant bowl of Skittles, a giant bowl of popcorn, and a giant bowl of regular Chex Mix. Why the McCalls had so many giant bowls was a mystery.

“Did you even invite him?” Stiles asked Scott under his breath before he remembered Derek would be able to hear him no matter how low he muttered.

Scott glanced at Derek who seemed to be staunchly ignoring them. “Yeah. He’s part of the pack whether he likes it or not.”

“I can’t believe he actually came. Wouldn’t think Mr. Sourwolf would want to spend his Saturday night with a bunch of twenty-somethings.”

“Guess we’re better company than Peter.”

“That’s setting the bar in the ground, Scott. Digging a hole to put the bar in.”

For the briefest of flashes, Stiles thought he caught a tiny smile on Derek’s face, but—if it happened at all—it vanished in the next instant.

Isaac won the hat draw for who got to pick the movie, and the moment he entered _Alien_ into the search bar, Stiles knew this night was going to suck. Their lives were already a horror movie.

Stiles plopped down in the middle of the sofa, hoping he’d be sandwiched between two other people, and dragged the quilted throw from the back of the couch over himself, fiddling with a frayed hole along the edge. He hadn’t expected Derek and Isaac to be the ones settled at his sides. The two least comforting members of their group. Great.

In the corner of Stiles’s eye, Derek stared ahead, bored, and Isaac chewed his lips as if he hadn’t been the one to choose the anxiety-inducing movie with purposely claustrophobic cinematography. The night was going swimmingly.

Opening credits played across a starry black expanse, and Stiles tucked the quilt under his chin. To his surprise, Derek claimed a quarter of the blanket, tugging it over his lap with a yawn. Not bored but tired? Stiles subtly loosened his grip on the covers to let Derek take more. Battling heavy eyelids, Derek propped his temple on his fist. He _had_ been through a lot lately.

Despite having seen the film before, when the face hugger first lunged, Stiles nearly launched off the couch, his hand instinctively seizing whatever was nearest to anchor himself. What was nearest happened to be Derek’s wrist. His hand rested on his thigh under the blanket, and Stiles suddenly found his fingers burning against Derek’s skin.

Derek stared at him. Stiles stared back. Neither moved.

Stiles’s hand was no longer attached, his whole arm losing sensation. He couldn’t have pulled it back if he tried, and he was too mortified anyway, leaving him frozen in place.

Derek broke the spell. Illuminated only by the flicker of the screen, he looked away as he twisted his wrist out of Stiles’s grasp, carefully folding his own fingers around Stiles’s numbly pliant hand. Not twining their fingers together, just hands clasped. The graze of Derek’s calloused palm against Stiles’s stirred something deep in his body. Derek squeezed gingerly. Stiles’s blood wanted to evacuate his arteries.

Derek kept his eyes on the movie while his hand stayed in Stiles’s, giving a reassuring squeeze every time something horrific happened. Although Stiles’s eyes saw the screen, he barely noticed the jump scares or the building tension anymore. His body was already taut as a wire, every nerve and neuron focused on the small area of his hand.

The movie ended.

Their hands separated.

Neither of them said anything, and Derek and Stiles left without looking at each other.

* * *

Two weeks later, Derek got to choose the movie. He selected _Aliens_.

“All right, continuing the saga,” Isaac cheered.

Stiles wanted to stab himself in the eye.

Lydia and Kira made finger sandwiches this time, and Stiles stuffed them in his mouth just to have something to do until the lights turned out and the movie started up.

Derek didn’t sit on the sofa this time. Instead, Stiles was wedged between Malia and Scott. With every jump scare, Stiles couldn’t help recalling the unexpectedly welcome distraction Derek’s skin on his had been. The loss itched at his fingers. He shut his eyes tight, slumping down into the cushions, doing his best to cave into himself. It didn’t help that every time he opened his eyes, Derek was watching him. Predator fixated on prey.

Was he mocking him?

* * *

Two more weeks.

Malia scrolled indecisively through titles until she landed on _A Knight’s Tale_ with Heath Ledger playing Will, the roguish impostor knight that Stiles had to admit was charming. Heath Ledger was charming enough to make even characters like the Joker lovable in their own way.

While Stiles ruminated on the undeniable magnetism of Heath Ledger before his untimely death, he didn’t register Derek settling beside him on the sofa until he snagged the edge of the quilt. Derek didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes trained forward and draped the blanket far enough up his torso that his whole right arm lay underneath. No jump scares tonight though. Stiles’s hands fidgeted beneath the covers, folding in his lap, tucking under his armpits, wiping sweat on his jeans.

His forearm brushed Derek’s where it rested on the sliver of cushion between them. An invitation? Or an opportunity to make fun of him? Stiles swallowed.

Chancing a glance at Derek’s face rewarded Stiles with the impression that Derek was utterly bored. The man was beyond unreadable. The romantic music in the movie swelled, and Stiles risked letting his wrist skim the back of Derek’s hand, settling it notched against Derek’s knuckles.

They stayed like that for at least ten minutes. Creeping slower than ivy twining up a pillar, Derek wriggled his hand underneath Stiles’s, weaving their fingers. A gentle thumb traced circles around Stiles’s knuckle, sending thunder to his heart, lightning through his blood, a tornado into his mind. What was happening? Excitement, fear, confusion, there were too many sensations and emotions, and once again, Stiles zoned out of the movie, his whole being fixated on the silent conversation conducted by touch.

The high faded gradually. Stiles tuned back into reality, anxiety setting in because this secret rendezvous under the throw felt illegal. Scott on his other side knew nothing—Stiles hoped.

Stiles had been aware of his bisexuality for a while now, but he’d never acted on it. He wasn’t ashamed.

Derek had always seemed unattainable, untouchable. He’d never let Derek know the thrill he got from his intense gaze, the longing that invaded like a weed, no matter how many times Stiles plucked it. None of the others would understand what was happening between them considering Stiles didn’t understand it himself.

In the movie, the love interest, Jocelyn, climbed into Will’s bed. Derek’s fingers flexed. Was he retreating? No. One by one, as if playing piano scales, Derek drummed his fingers and softly stroked the back of Stiles’s hand.

Tingles.

How did this feel innocent and dirty at the same time? Who knew there was such nuance to hand holding? The simple contact playful yet affirming, palms and fingers sensitive to the slightest movements. Stiles only wished he knew how to reciprocate.

The longer Derek massaged his hand, the further Stiles meandered toward sleep. The movie climbed to its climax, Jocelyn begging Will to run, to not risk his life and his freedom in the final bout. Derek’s hand released. Stiles’s eyes flew open, fully alert. But as he frowned at Derek in protest, Derek didn’t meet his gaze, his fingertips trailing down Stiles’s palm, down the thin skin at his wrist, along his veins, tracing lazy patterns that left that gentle bubbling feeling in Stiles’s head like starlight or champagne. Stiles melted back into the sofa. He spied the suggestion of a smile on Derek’s lips.

The movie ended, and they separated, leaving Stiles lamenting the emptiness of Derek’s absence. Everybody yawned and stretched, trickling out the door. Derek and Stiles lingered, helping clean up, until it was just them and Scott. If only they were at Stiles’s house…

“Thanks, guys.” Scott stretched, groaning. “Stiles, you staying the night?”

Stiles checked his watch. “Yeah, think so. Sheets still in the hall closet?”

“Yup.”

“I’ll get out of your way,” Derek said with a wave. Scott and Stiles mumbled goodbyes, Stiles’s eyes following him out the door. Once he was gone, Stiles’s mind demagnetized, his concentration returning to his own control again. He took stock. Checked his phone. Answered a school email. Started shifting aside the coffee table to make way for the pullout. He marveled at how he could focus now. Well, it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been focused during the movie. Just not on the right thing. When Derek was around, he was a blackhole for Stiles’s attention. That couldn’t be healthy.

Scott returned from his bedroom in black sweatpants and a gray t-shirt with a pillow that he tossed onto the sofa. “You need a toothbrush?”

“Yeah, th—”

The door opened again, readmitting Derek, scratching his head. “Um. I have a flat. And my spare is in my garage. Took it out for space.”

“Oh,” Scott and Stiles chimed simultaneously.

“You, uh, you can—sleep here. If you want.” Scott gestured vaguely to his house.

Derek cleared his throat, burying a hand in one pocket and shrugging. Stiles rolled his eyes. “I’ll-I’ll drive you home. ‘Kay, buddy?”

Derek’s shoulders visibly relaxed. As did Scott’s. Pack bonding was definitely not failing at all.

Stiles swiped his keys from the table at the entrance and typed a text to his dad on the way to his car, letting him know he’d be driving Derek home in the middle of the night instead of sleeping over at Scott’s. He’d given in long ago to updating his dad on his whereabouts. Cops make the best and worst parents.

Once they were both in his Jeep, Stiles realized _they were both in his Jeep._ _Alone._

His muscles liquified as he put the car in reverse and backed out of Scott’s driveway, muscle memory failing him and his movements turning so clumsy he almost lurched them forward into the mailbox. It took exactly five minutes for the silence to become too much.

“Too bad it wasn’t _Alien 3_ , right?” Stiles blurted.

Derek looked at him without speaking.

Stiles started to sweat. Well, he was already sweating, but he seemed to sweat a new layer underneath. “What?”

“If you have something to say, say it.”

An amalgamation of sounds fumbled their way past Stiles’s lips until he managed, “Well-well, what do you—should—what am I supposed to say?”

The light of the dashboard lit Derek’s face just enough for Stiles to make out the familiar expression of dry exasperation Derek reserved just for him.

“You know, you could talk for once. I’m always the one saying things.” Stiles flapped his hand between them for emphasis.

“I don’t say, I do.”

Stiles grumbled under his breath, “Yeah, secretly.”

“You grabbed my hand first.”

He said it. They were talking about it.

“Okay, that was an accident. And it was your wrist. And—no, you know what? You didn’t have to hold my hand. You could’ve pulled your arm back and that would’ve been that. But then you go with your weird mixed signals, picking _Aliens_ and then not sitting next to me then tonight you—” Stiles choked off, gesturing helplessly.

They were quiet for the rest of the drive, the only sound the occasional thunk of stone against the Jeep’s undercarriage.

Derek’s loft loomed, a dark blot against a darker sky. Stiles clenched his fists in his lap. For once, he couldn’t find words, though he felt them brewing just beneath the surface. Derek got out, and Stiles started to back out of the lot but slammed the brake when Derek wrenched open his door.

“What—”

“Park it.” Derek reached across Stiles to unbuckle his seatbelt. When Stiles remained motionless, Derek nodded emphatically toward the gearshift. Stiles obeyed unthinkingly. Derek stepped back to let him out, and Stiles slid onto wobbling legs. Invading his space but not threateningly, Derek pinned Stiles against the side of his car. He didn’t cage him in, didn’t pressed him physically. Just moved him back with the force of his presence. Stiles’s breath hitched.

“Tell me what you want,” Derek rumbled.

A faint whimper escaped Stiles’s throat. “What-what-what I—? Um—I don’t—I just want to stay alive.”

Derek laughed. A single, sharp exhale of breath accented by a tilt of his lips. “I’m not going to hurt you. Just tell me. You say. I do.”

Stiles swallowed. “I don’t know what I want.”

Derek’s gaze dropped to the inch of ground between them before he looked back at Stiles, a wall sliding back into place behind his eyes that Stiles hadn’t realized had lifted. “Okay,” he said. He strode toward the loft. Stiles followed. Derek stopped, looking over his shoulder. “Stiles.” It would’ve sounded chastising if it weren’t so fond.

“I don’t know what I want, but I think—I want to try something.”

Derek turned to face him, waiting.

Stiles’s steps stuttered, but he approached Derek again, taking his hand in a jerky motion. Derek let him. Their fingers linked together. Stiles felt whole. He closed his eyes for a moment, opening them again with new resolve.

“Will-will you—kiss me?”

In the dim light of the lone streetlamp nearby, Derek’s eyes flicked down to Stiles’s mouth. He edged further into Stiles’s space, his free hand combing through Stiles’s hair. Stiles nuzzled into his palm, his eyes drifting shut. Derek’s lips whispered across his jaw, the scratch of his stubble unexpectedly invigorating. He kissed Stiles’s cheek, the corner of his mouth, tested his tongue lightly against his lips. Stiles’s parted them. His hand came up to clench in Derek’s V-neck, commanding him closer, demanding a deeper kiss. Derek obliged. His hand traveled from the side of Stiles’s head down his neck, his shoulder blade, to his waist, coaxing their bodies together.

Stiles gulped a breath when Derek broke away to lather kisses up his cheek, nose, eyes, brow. Head heavy, he let it droop onto Derek’s chest, his panted breath dampening his shirt.

“Fuck,” Stiles murmured. “Why are you such an asshole?”

Derek laughed into Stiles’s hair. “Now who’s sending mixed signals?”

“This could’ve happened a lot sooner if you weren’t such a distant, withholding jerk.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Can I come upstairs?”

“Go home, Stiles.”

Stiles drew back, glaring at Derek. “What? You’re seriously going to leave me hanging like this?”

“Go home. Get some rest.” Derek lifted their still clasped hands to his lips, kissing each of Stiles’s fingers. “Thanks for the ride.”

With one last chaste kiss, he left Stiles standing there as he ascended the steps to his building. He paused at the door. Without looking back, he called, “I slashed my tire. I wanted you to drive me home.”

He was gone, and Stiles was on the sidewalk, mouth agape.


End file.
